


Welcome to Flagstaff

by CR Noble (erudite12)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 50s au, 50s slang, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Diners, Drive-In, First Dates, First Time, M/M, Smut, Unprotected Sex, Virgin Michael, mentions of period appropriate homophobia, wrap it before you tap it kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 16:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudite12/pseuds/CR%20Noble
Summary: Michael has lived in Flagstaff his whole life, and been working at the diner for a couple of years by the time 1958 rolls around and a handsome, foreign stranger walks through the door and changes his life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SPN Rare Ship CC: Round 25 | cr-noble-writes vs. @Thelostchimaera  
Prompt: Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives  
Ship: Michael/Crowley
> 
> Okay, I tried to make this as period-accurate as possible but it is damn difficult to find information about being queer in the 50s in the states. So, I did my best. I like the thing, I hope you like the thing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up to everyone reading, Chapter 3 is a self-contained, skippable smut chapter <3

“Order up,” Michael called over the noise of the sizzling grill and  _ Mr. Sandman _ streaming from the jukebox as he shoved a plateful of burger and fries into the window for Claire. He hummed along as he scraped grease off the flat top of the grill, cursing when some of it splashed up onto his apron. It was white when his shift started but had since been splattered to hell and was mostly varying shades of old, oily brown. 

The plate still sat in the window, blocking Michael’s view out into the dining room. He sighed, wiping his hands with a mostly clean rag as he walked over to the swinging door. He pushed it open and stood behind the counter, searching the nearly empty diner for the waitress. 

Claire was standing at one of the tables, with a charming but very fake smile on her face. The pale blue uniform dress she wore brushed against the back of her calves as she leaned over to flirt with an attractive, dark-haired boy that looked to be about her age. Working him for a better tip, no doubt. 

Michael shook his head. “Hey, nosebleed!” he shouted. The look Claire gave him when she turned toward him would have turned a lesser man to stone. “Order. Up.” He gestured toward the window, then went back into the kitchen as she turned on her heel and came toward him.

“You’re a real wet rag, you know that?” Claire glared at him through the window as she took the plate.

“Maybe do your job if you want a tip,” Michael retorted, grinning at her. “Stop misleading the local joes.” 

If looks could kill, he’d have been a dead man long ago. Claire was a firecracker, to be sure. She had opinions and she sure and certainly had no problem sharing them. Very loudly. Much like Michael, she didn’t have many friends in town, but the two of them got along okay. They were birds of a feather, really. In more ways than one.

Michael pulled the soft pack of Lucky Strikes from the pocket of his slacks and tapped it against his knuckle so a cigarette slid out far enough for him to put it to his lips and slip it the rest of the way out. He’d just thumbed open his zippo when the little bell over the door tinkled, and an unfamiliar face stepped into the diner. Well, he wasn’t totally unfamiliar. Just new in town. And different, not that Michael minded that at all.

The guy was around Michael’s age, maybe a couple of years older. He was foreign, with an accent that Michael could only sort of place because he’d heard Brits talk on the television before. He was a real quiet type, a regular nerd. He always wore a pressed suit, and his short hair was neatly combed to one side. The thin tie he wore that day was green and it matched the suspenders that just peeked out of his jacket when he unbuttoned it to sit down. Large glasses with thick, black frames rested on a mostly straight nose that was maybe a touch small for his face, but didn’t make him less handsome. Even if he wasn’t of the sort that Michael usually found himself attracted to.

“Take a picture, Mikey,” Claire said, and he blinked, flushing a little as he looked over at her. “And put that away before you light your hair up.”

He’d forgotten his cigarette when the guy walked in, but Michael rolled his eyes at Claire and lit it, then snapped the lid of the lighter shut with a flick of his wrist before shoving it back into his pocket. “Shut up,” he said good-naturedly.

Michael didn’t even know the foreigner’s name, just that he had been in Flagstaff for a week or so, and that he liked a good burger and a strawberry malt. And he liked to read, or at least Michael assumed he did since every time Michael saw him, he had a book. They weren’t the sort of books you picked up at the bookstore in a small town like this one, either.

Reaching into the cooler, Michael dropped a fresh patty on the grill and took a long drag of his cigarette. Claire leaned against the window and chewed her gum with a conspiratorial smirk. 

“Why don’t you just say hello instead of eyeballing him?” she asked. “His name is Crowley, and I’d bet all the change in my apron that he’d love to hear what you have to say.”

It wasn’t as though Michael could just walk up to any man and say he’d like to take them out for dinner and a nightcap. That would be liable to get him run out of town at best and thrown in jail at worst. It was pure luck he’d become friends with Claire. She’d figured it out on her own, though he supposed it wasn’t that hard to put two and two together, especially given that he was twenty-five and she had probably had more steady girlfriends than Michael had. Which was to say he hadn’t ever had a girlfriend, steady or otherwise. Others had their suspicions, but Claire was the only one who knew for sure.

Michael eyed Crowley as he flipped the burger. “Things are hard enough for me here without getting arrested for indecency.”

Claire just shook her head. “I got a nose for these things, Michael. You know that.” She glanced over her shoulder at Crowley. He was sitting quietly, reading  _ On The Road  _ as he drank Coke from a tall soda glass. “Not to mention he’s been dropping pins every day since he saw you.”

Michael put his cigarette out in the ashtray and grabbed a plate, assembling the burger and pushing it through the window at Claire. Maybe she was right. He could talk about the book; he’d read it when it hit the shelves the previous year. “Yeah, alright. I’ll talk to him,” he agreed finally.

She smiled, blew a bubble and let it pop, and then took the plate over to the man at the counter.  _ Crowley _ . What a name that was. Michael looked around the dining room through the window to see if there was anyone new, but the only people left were the dark-haired kid Claire had been misleading into a bigger tip and Crowley, so Michael untied his apron and went into the bathroom in the back of the diner.

He checked his reflection in the mirror and almost immediately regretted it. Of all the places Michael could have run into this guy, it had to be here. His white t-shirt was covered in splotchy brown stains, and he couldn’t tell anymore where the grease he put in his hair intentionally stopped and the grease from working in the kitchen started. Even he could tell he smelled like he’d been rolling in used, dirty cooking oil.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, pulling the white cap off his head to at least comb his hair, and twist the black curl that hung down over his forehead. Michael rested his palms on the sink and leaned on them, taking a deep breath. He was nervous, more nervous than he could remember being anytime in recent history. 

Shoving his comb back in his pocket, Michael walked out of the bathroom and back toward the counter where Crowley sat. He’d closed his book and set it off to the side, devoting his full attention to the plate of food in front of him. Michael was sure he’d never seen anyone eat a cheeseburger so…  _ neatly _ in his life. It made him feel like even more of a mess, and he almost turned and walked straight back into the kitchen instead of approaching him.

Except Claire glared at Michael from the other side of the dining room like she could read his mind or something. So, he made his way to the bar instead. He looked across the white formica at Crowley and… suddenly couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. Forgetting entirely about the book that sat on the counter, full of possible conversation starters and shared interests, Michael just stood there and wondered when he’d forgotten how to speak.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice Michael standing there with sweaty palms and a dry mouth, wishing he hadn’t left his Luckys in the kitchen. He just stared down at his plate and kept right on eating fries one at a time, placing them almost delicately between his lips before biting into them. 

Michael cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, you’re, uh, new to Flagstaff, right?” God damn it. He was going to die alone if he kept letting garbage like that fall out of his mouth. 

Crowley looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised like he was surprised. His eyes were brown, a deep brown that sparkled when the light hit them. And then he smiled and Michael was pretty sure he was already real gone. “I was just passing through. But something told me I should stay for a while.”

“It’s a decent place, I suppose,” Michael said. Of course, he was just passing through. No one  _ wanted _ to be in Flagstaff. Not even the people who’d lived there their whole lives. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, and nothing interesting ever happened. The whole damn town was a drag.

“Have you lived here long?” Crowley asked, twirling a french fry between his fingers. 

Now that he was looking at Crowley up close, Michael could see that he was definitely a few years older. He had just the beginning of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and thin worry lines across his forehead. And dimples that made Michael’s heart skip in his chest when the stranger smiled.

Man, could he use a drink—a strong one—but Michael shrugged, trying to shake off the nerves. He wasn’t used to feeling this way; he was confident in most situations. But, well, this was a tricky one at best.Any second his voice was gonna crack like a thirteen-year-old at a school dance, Michael just knew it. “All my life. Say, where do you hail from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “I was born in Scotland, but my mother raised me in London.” He sipped at his glass of Coke and smiled. He seemed so much more comfortable than Michael.

“So, is this just a stateside vacation?” 

“Not at all,” Crowley said, smile fading. He circled the rim of his glass with his fingers as he spoke. “Britain isn’t exactly a safe place for men… like me. Not in the current climate.” His eyes were sad for a moment, but then the odd, haunted expression disappeared and he was smiling again.

Michael could only guess—hope, really—that meant what he thought it did. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. “Are you a dangerous man?” he asked with a raised brow.

“That depends on who you’re asking.” He hesitated for a long moment, examining Michael’s face. He looked nervous but he continued anyway. “I suppose it’s a matter of preference.”

That was as close to a confirmation that Michael thought he might get out of this conversation. “I’m Michael. Michael Milton,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake and smiling. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Crowley.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow but took Michael’s hand and shook it firmly. “I don’t recall giving you my name.”

“You didn’t.” Michael’s eyes darted over to Claire, who was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, chewing her bubble gum, and pretending not to pay close attention to their conversation. “She did.”

“Right, of course,” he said softly, looking down at his plate again. “You two make quite the charming couple.”

Michael actually laughed out loud at that. That anyone might think they were a couple was something he found very entertaining. “Me and Claire? We’re just friends. She’s really not my type.”

Crowley seemed to relax visibly upon hearing that, and they talked for a while longer and about nothing in particular until they were interrupted by the jingle of the bell that hung above the front door. It was old Mr. Singer and he sat in a booth on the opposite side of the dining room and waited for Claire to bring him his usual coffee.

“Listen,” Michael said quietly, leaning in closer and letting his fingers brush against the back of Crowley’s hand. To anyone watching it might look accidental, but it sent a bit of a thrill down Michael’s spine when Crowley met his gaze and moved his arm just a little closer instead of pulling away from the touch. “I cut out of here in about an hour and they’re showing  _ Damn Yankees _ down at the drive-in tonight. Would you maybe want to catch the flick with me?”

“I think I’d like that very much.” 

They agreed to meet back at the diner at eight o’clock sharp and take Crowley’s car since Michael’s motorcycle didn’t have much in the way of seating. Then Michael smiled at Crowley through the window as he lit a smoke and made Mr. Singer’s usual omelet. He hardly paid as much attention to the grill as he should have, keeping his eyes on Crowley as he lit another cigarette and Claire brought him a strawberry malt.

Crowley didn’t stay for much longer, but he nodded a farewell at Michael with a smile before he took off, and Michael was on cloud nine for the rest of his shift. It must have been written all over his face, too, because even Dean noticed when he showed up to take over for the evening. 

Michael ignored Dean’s questions, a bounce in his step as he slipped his leather jacket on and walked out to the parking lot where his motorcycle was parked. The red 1950 Indian Chief Black Hawk was Michael’s pride and joy. She roared to life and Michael took off toward the small house he shared with his mother on the other side of the small town.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop at the end of this chapter if you don't want to read the smut :D

Crowley went back to his cheap motel room after leaving the diner. He had a few hours until the time he and Michael had agreed to meet for their date. He was pretty certain it was a date. Michael had touched his hand gently and flashed a brilliant smile, leaning in and almost whispering conspiratorially. Why else would he have invited Crowley, alone, to a drive-in?

It was definitely a date.

It had certainly taken long enough to get his attention. A week of eating cheeseburgers—they were, admittedly, delicious—and strawberry malts, and if one more day had passed, Crowley would have given up and continued on his journey back to New York. He was ecstatic that Michael had finally come over to talk to him. Crowley decided he could drown slowly in the ocean of those blue eyes, and he would die with a smile on his face. He wondered idly if Michael had ever seen an ocean, and thought that he might take him to coast one day.

Then, he tried to pass the remaining hours until he saw Michael again by reading his book, but no matter how captivating Sal’s cross-country trek was, Crowley found himself unable to focus on it at all. Instead he showered and shaved and then took his time dressing in a fresh black suit with a blue tie, and then he drove back to the diner and parked. He was there nearly thirty minutes early, and so he sat in the driver’s seat of the New Yorker and read the same paragraph five hundred times because he couldn’t remember what it said.

Eventually, Crowley gave up on trying to read at all, closed the novel, and let it rest in the middle of the dark leather of the bench seat. It was 7:45 when he checked his watch again, so he stepped out of the car and walked around to lean back against the rear bumper and wait for Michael. The parking lot of the diner was nearly empty. He supposed it made sense as most of the people in this small town probably looked to their own kitchens for dinner. 

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting pink and purple hues across the Southwestern sky as it disappeared behind the buildings of the little town. It was the sort of lovely, romantic scene Crowley had been reading about in books for his entire life, but only rarely had the opportunity to witness in person. Cars occasionally passed by the diner on the main route to the west, but Crowley didn’t pay attention to them. Especially not when he heard the low rumble of what promised to be a motorcycle heading toward the diner on the cross street that intersected with 66.

The motorcycle pulled up right next to Crowley’s car, and Michael looked over at him with a smile as he cut the engine and lowered the stand. Crowley was struck by a sudden bout of nerves because Michael did not look at all the sort of man that would actually be interested in someone like him. Crowley was very neat, put-together in a proper sort of way, with his suits and ties and shiny dress shoes. 

Michael dismounted his motorcycle, and Crowley took a moment to remember how to breathe. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a film. His black hair was slicked back on the sides and his curls combed and twisted so they piled up and came down like a thick tail over his forehead. In the fading evening light, Michael’s blue eyes looked like they might have a green tint to them, and there was a cigarette pressed between his full, smiling lips. And, as if his face alone wasn’t enough to do Crowley in, he was peeling off a black leather jacket, revealing an impossibly tight white tee-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled into one sleeve and the other sleeve pinned. If the shirt hugged Michael’s figure any closer, he would burst out of it. It was tucked neatly into the jeans he wore cuffed just above the ankle, exposing most of the leather of his black motorcycle boots.

“Hello, Michael,” Crowley said. Apparently, even a literary mind such as his own didn’t have any further words when stood up against a man such as Michael. 

Michael took his cigarette out of his mouth between two of his long fingers and blew out a breath of smoke. “I, uh, was almost afraid you weren’t going to show. Those your wheels?” He asked, pointing toward the New Yorker. Crowley smiled and nodded as Michael approached the car, bending down to peer into the passenger side window, and running a hand across the blue paint. “She’s real cherry.”

It was a nice car, and while Crowley generally didn’t know much about mechanics, he did his very best to keep it in good condition. “Thank you,” he said, watching the glowing end of Michael’s cigarette fly smoothly through the air as the butt was flicked toward the road.

Michael opened the passenger door with a smile so small that Crowley could almost consider it shy or nervous if he could believe that someone like him could make someone like Michael feel such a thing. “Movie starts in fifteen; we better go if we want to get a decent spot.”

Crowley walked around to the driver’s side of the New Yorker and slid onto the bench seat. He took a deep breath as he shut the door and let his hands rest for a moment on the steering wheel. He was incredibly anxious. Not because he lacked confidence or thought he was, perhaps, beneath Michael. Crowley didn’t feel that way at all. He was extraordinarily comfortable in his own skin, and while, objectively, he thought Michael was more attractive than him, it didn’t particularly bother him.

The years of open, overt hatred Crowley had encountered, however, certainly made it difficult to be completely comfortable getting in a car with a man for a date. They were in a very small town, which in Crowley’s experience meant they were surrounded by small-minded people, and life as a queer man was hardly easier in America than it had been in Britain. Even in the relative privacy of the car, others at the drive-in might see them. 

“Hey, you okay?” Michael’s voice startled Crowley from his thoughts and he looked over into concerned blue eyes and smiled. 

“Yes, I’m alright,” he replied, turning the key in the ignition and backing the car out of the diner parking lot. The drive-in was only a short distance away, and for a moment Crowley feared the trip would be entirely silent.

“So, uh,” Michael started. He seemed as nervous as Crowley was, and unsure of what to say. “You’re from England?”

Crowley nodded as he turned the car into the drive-in. “Yes. Specifically London. I came to New York last year.” He rolled down his window and handed a crisp dollar bill to a kid that couldn’t have been more than seventeen. “What about you?”

“Born and raised right here in Flagstaff.” Michael smiled again as he turned to lean back against the door. “I’ve never been outside of Arizona. What’s London like?”

The movie started, the light from the screen illuminating the inside of the car and playing in muted colors across Michael’s face. His smile was infectious, Crowley found as he felt the corners of his own mouth turning up as he admired it. “It’s like any other city, I suppose. Crowded, dirty, but beautiful in its own way. Never a shortage of things to do or trouble to get into.”

Michael lit a cigarette as he listened to Crowley talk about his home city. It was the first time in a very long while that someone appeared genuinely interested in learning about him. Crowley talked about his childhood and about the trouble he and his friends caused in his younger days, and he basked in it when Michael laughed—long, loud, and with his entire body—at the tales of his exploits. “It sounds like a nice place,” he said finally. “Why’d you leave?”

“Too many close calls,” Crowley replied, his smile fading as he looked away, glancing up at the film. “It’s hard to live somewhere when you might be arrested for looking a bit too interested in a man.” He’d been lucky enough not to have ever been thrown in a cell himself, but too many of his friends hadn’t been so fortunate. It was a surprise when he felt a tentative hand on his, fingers squeezing lightly when he didn’t pull away. “What do you with your free time?”

“There’s nothing to do in this town but get high and try to get out,” Michael answered, shaking his head. “I read a lot, work on my bike. We have the drive-in now, so I come here a lot when I don’t have to work.”

Conversation seemed to come much more easily as the night wore on and the movie was mostly ignored in favor of looking at each other. Michael moved closer as they talked, until their legs were almost touching, and Crowley was a bit overwhelmed by the warmth that rolled off his body and the smoke and leather scent of him. Their hands were still linked together, resting on the seat in the almost non-existent space between them as the movie crawled toward its end.

“So, I guess you’ll be leaving soon,” Michael said eventually. He sounded disappointed. “Going back to New York.” He was chewing on his lower lip, blue eyes cast down at the dash in front of him, and a pink blush stained his cheek.

A sudden tightness gripped Crowley’s chest at the shadow of sadness and he reached over on impulse, gently turning Michael to face him and running a thumb across his cheek. “Let’s not talk about that right now. If our time together is limited, we should enjoy it while we can.”

Michael nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. It didn’t hide the disappointment in his eyes, and Crowley wanted to kiss it away, but he hadn’t meant it as a proposition. He wasn’t the sort of man to take advantage of people when they were emotionally vulnerable.

“You’re right,” he said softly, letting go of Crowley’s hand as he slid closer. Michael pressed in against Crowley’s side, eyes darting around as if to make sure no one was watching. A paranoid habit, probably, given the relative privacy the car gave them. “Can I kiss you, Crowley?”

With his heart in his throat, Crowley nodded and Michael closed the short distance between them. His lips were soft and dry, tentative as they met Crowley’s. Crowley reached up and gently held Michael’s face between his hands, tilting his head and taking control of the kiss. Michael sighed and Crowley’s tongue softly sought entrance, sliding past parted lips to taste Michael. He tasted dark and sweet, like Coke and tobacco, and it was intoxicating. Their lips and tongues moved together as if they were meant for this moment. Crowley resisted the urge to pull Michael into his lap just to be able to feel more of him at once.

When they parted, both breathless, the movie screen had gone blank, and Michael was looking at Crowley with dark, lustful eyes. Crowley licked his lips and cleared his throat. “The film is over,” he said. “We should probably leave.”

Michael nodded but made no effort to put any space between them. “We should go to your hotel.” He bit his lip and smiled shyly. “I don’t think my mother would take too kindly to me bringing you back to my house.”

“Are you certain you want this?” Crowley asked, hesitating as he turned the key and the New Yorker rumbled to life. 

Shyness aside, Michael didn’t seem uncertain at all. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Crowley backed the car out and left the drive-in, heading for his hotel and already regretted the fact that he would have to leave Flagstaff in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the smut, so feel free to not read it if you don't want to :D

Michael’s heart pounded in his chest, a combination of nerves and anticipation, as Crowley pulled the car into the motel parking lot. He didn’t say anything, hadn’t really during the short trip from the drive-in, because he wasn’t sure he trusted his ability to speak. It was more than just a physical attraction, Michael liked Crowley a lot. He licked his lips anxiously as he stepped out of the car. He’d never done anything like this before. 

Crowley glanced around the parking lot in the same paranoid habit Michael had when he got out and shut the car door. There was no one around to see Michael following the strange out-of-towner through the red door to his room. If he was going to be stuck in Flagstaff for the rest of his life, Michael wanted to make it as easy as possible. 

The door clicked shut behind them as they entered the little room. It was nothing fancy. Rough, dark brown carpet covered the floor, and thick, tan curtains hung in the only window. There was a double bed with an equally drab tan spread, and across from it was a small, round wooden table with two chairs. Atop the table sat a bottle of scotch that Crowley must have brought with him and a short stack of Dixie cups.

“Would you like a drink?” Crowley asked as he made his way across the room and shrugged his jacket off, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs. He opened the bottle and poured some of the amber liquor into a cup for himself.

Michael’s palms were sweaty and he was nervous, and he thought a drink might help steady him. His words came out a little stilted and awkward, and he hated it. “Yes, that would be fine. Thanks.” He moved further into the room but stood rather uneasily in the center of the floor as Crowley handed him his own paper cup.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” Crowley asked, sipping at his own drink.

“Yeah.” Michael downed his in one swallow, letting the warm burn of the liquor calm him. “I’m all jitters, I guess.” He forced his feet to move, one in front of the other, until he’d closed the distance between them, dropped his empty cup on the table, and busied himself with untying his boots and taking them off.

Crowley smiled tenderly at him, setting his own drink down and reaching out to caress Michael’s face and lift his chin with soft fingers. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Michael felt himself flush and shook his head. “I mean, I’ve made out with a few guys, but I’ve never… you know… gone all the way.” 

Taking Michael by the hand, Crowley led him over to the bed and they sat down at the foot of it. Keeping their fingers laced together, Crowley asked, “And you want your first time to be with me?”

Michael licked his lips, holding Crowley’s gaze and doing his best to ignore the erratic pound of his heart. “Yes. If you’re okay with that. I know I’m not very experienced, but I like you a lot. And I don’t want to miss my chance.”

Crowley leaned in, gentle fingers ghosting up Michael’s arm and coming to rest against his neck as their lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, and Crowley’s hands were warm—even through Michael’s t-shirt—against his back, and the nervous tension drained from his muscles, replaced by a pleasant buzz of desire just beneath his skin. Feeling bolder by the second, Michael swung a leg over Crowley, pulling him closer to feel the press of their bodies.

They made out like that for a while, Michael wasn’t really sure how long. Between the languorous slide of their lips and tongues, and exploratory fingers and palms, he lost track of everything else. There was nothing but Michael and Crowley, the breaths they shared and the slow, steady heat building between them. 

Michael bit his lip and groaned softly when Crowley broke away to trail warm, wet kisses across his jaw and down his neck. With hands made unsteady by desire, Michael tugged the tail from the knot of Crowley’s tie and discarded the silk carelessly. His fingers trembled as he undid the buttons of the dress shirt Crowley wore and then pushed it over his shoulders. Michael pulled the neat white undershirt up, breaking away from Crowley’s kisses long enough to pull it over his head.

Crowley watched Michael with dark brown eyes as he traced fingers over heated skin and the coarse hair on his chest. If Michael wasn’t careful, he’d get lost in the depths of those eyes forever. Michael’s exploration was slow and lengthy, learning and gauging Crowley’s reactions—a sharp intake of breath when Michael traced the line of his throat, fingers tightening, pressing into the flesh of Michael’s hips when he dragged a thumb across a taut nipple, a trail of goosebumps when his fingers ghosted across ribs.

An involuntary shiver traveled up Michael’s spine as Crowley’s hands slid under his shirt, pushing it up until Michael had to lift his arms to let him take it off. Crowley pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to Michael’s bare chest, and Michael threaded his fingers into short, surprisingly soft hair. He wished, for once, that he’d left his hair natural so he could know what it felt like for Crowley to run a hand through it when it was all clean, dry curls.

The thought was dismissed by his own groan as Crowley’s teeth bit gently into the muscle where Michael’s neck and shoulder joined. He pulled Crowley closer, hips rolling on their own as his body searched for more contact, friction for his already hard cock. A hand on his lower back and a low sound in Crowley’s throat encouraged him to do it again. 

Their mouths found each other again as Crowley laid back against the mattress, pulling Michael down with him. Michael supported himself on one forearm, leaving the other hand to roam freely. The friction as he rutted against Crowley sent frissons of pleasure through his body, even more so when he felt the hard length of Crowley’s cock against his hip. 

“Crowley,” Michael said, voice a low, lust-heavy whisper. “I want you so bad. Want to feel you inside me.” He punctuated his words with sloppy, wet kisses across Crowley’s clavicle. He let Crowley roll him onto his back, and looked up into his eyes. “I’m sure,” he answered the unasked question.

Michael watched Crowley trail kisses down the skin of his chest and stomach, groaning and grabbing a fistful of bedspread in each hand when Crowley stopped to suck a mark into the flesh just above his hip bone. Deft fingers unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and Michael lifted his hips off the bed so they could be tugged down with his boxers, exposing his hard length. When they fell to the floor, Crowley stood, toeing his shoes off and unbuckling his belt.

His pulse spiked, and Michael stroked himself slowly as he watched Crowley strip off his remaining clothes. If he hadn’t already been a hundred percent certain of his own preferences, that moment would have confirmed it. Crowley’s eyes were on him as he stood there at the foot of the bed, entirely naked, and Michael’s nerves came back in full force. He was really doing this. And Crowley was… very well-endowed.

“Are you alright, Michael?” Crowley asked, crawling over him on the bed until they were face-to-face again.

Michael nodded, flushing. “You’re just, uh, bigger than I expected and I’m a little nervous is all.” His voice cracked, and Michael couldn’t tell if it was from arousal or anxiety.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Crowley assured him with a soft touch and a crooked smile. “I’ll take care of you, and I promise I won’t be offended if you change your mind at any time.”

“I’m not changing my mind,” Michael affirmed, pulling Crowley down into a kiss. He moved further up the bed at Crowley’s urging, relaxing under his tender touches, the slow dance of their lips and tongues, and the press of their bodies against each other.

Crowley reached and fumbled to open the tiny drawer of the nightstand, pulling a small glass bottle from its shallow recesses. He sat back on his heels, twisting off the little pink top and pouring baby oil onto his fingers. Leaning over Michael again, Crowley supported his weight with one hand and pressed kisses against his skin.

“Spread your legs for me, darling,” Crowley whispered. His breath was hot against Michael’s ear, and Michael did as he was asked, trying to ignore the anxious racing of his own heart.

Michael gripped Crowley’s arms as he felt an oiled finger teasing at his entrance, tracing circles that sent shivers of pleasure through him. He relaxed as Crowley whispered praises between tracing the lines of his neck and shoulder with his lips, and his eyes fluttered shut with a sigh. The finger pressed into him and he gasped at the new sensation.

Crowley worked his finger back and forth, and Michael moaned as he slid a second finger in alongside the first. Michael could feel his need building, a warm pressure in his pelvis, and he pushed himself down against the thrusts of Crowley’s fingers. An electric jolt of ecstasy rocked through Michael, straight to his cock and he cried out, eyes snapping open.

Crowley stopped, lifting his head to look down at Michael with concerned eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Michael said, “God no, don’t stop.”

Crowley moved his fingers inside Michael again, filling him and stretching him, and drawing moans and cries from him. Everything felt so good, especially when Crowley’s fingertips hit that one spot—Michael didn’t know what it was—and he saw stars. It was all so much, Michael felt like his entire body might explode. But he wanted the explosion, he needed more.

“Please, Crowley,” Michael begged. “I need you.” His earlier nervousness at Crowley’s size returned momentarily but was mostly pushed aside by his desire. He whined at the loss of Crowley’s fingers as the man sat back again, grabbing for the bottle of baby oil and coating his length with it.

Crowley hooked an arm under one of Michael’s knees, lifting it so the leg rested on his shoulder. Michael tensed, feeling the head of Crowley’s cock pressing against his entrance, and Crowley leaned down and kissed him deeply, slowly sinking into him as he relaxed.

Michael groaned, deep in his chest. The burning stretch, the fullness, Crowley’s sweat-sheened skin under his palms, it was perfect. He wondered why he’d waited so long to have sex, but then he was glad that he waited for Crowley.

They were still for a long moment, just caresses and kisses and whispered words of desire and affection, and then Crowley moved. Long, deep, slow thrusts that drove Michael closer to edge and overwhelmed him with sensation. Crowley was talking, voice low and raspy in Michael’s ear but he couldn’t hear the words.

Michael wrapped his arms around Crowley, clutching at him, pulling him as close as he could as he gasped and moaned and rocked his hips to meet Crowley’s. He licked and nipped at Crowley’s neck and repeated his name over and over like he’d forgotten that other words existed. They rocked together like that for seconds? minutes? hours? Michael had no idea.

Then Crowley’s hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking him as the rhythm of his thrusting picked up and Michael’s body _ did _ explode. He held tightly to Crowley, riding out the shuddering orgasm as it spilled from him, hot and sticky between his chest and his lover’s. Michael was high on that bliss when Crowley stilled above him, filling him with his heated release.

The sound of their heaving breaths filled the room as they lie there with their foreheads pressed together, exchanging kisses and waiting for their heartbeats to slow. Something about those shared moments afterward felt far more intimate than the act itself, and Michael could not help thinking about the fact that Crowley would be gone soon.

“Come on, love,” Crowley said, pulling out with a wince. “We should take a shower.”

Michael nodded and followed Crowley into the bathroom, and they made out against the sink while they waited for the water to heat up enough to stand under the warm stream. It was too easy, Michael thought, for them to act like old hands at this. Like they were a real couple and had known each other for much longer than one heated night. They laughed and joked, washed each other, cried out another release together before the water got too cold for them to stay in it.

It was after midnight when they pulled the dirtied spread off the bed and climbed in under the sheet. Crowley laid on his back, and Michael tucked himself against Crowley’s side, wrapping an arm around him and resting his head on Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s fingers traced soft, aimless circles against Michael’s back.

“You could come with me,” Crowley suggested softly, hesitantly. “To New York?”

Michael’s eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t look up, just stayed where he was and listened to the steady beat of Crowley’s heart. “You mean it?”

“Yes. I believe you would like it there.” Crowley wrapped an arm around Michael’s shoulder. “I… I don’t think I’m ready for our time together to be over.”

It was so much more that Michael had expected. Crowley. Sex. Intimacy. An offer to take him out of a town he’d been wanting to get away from since he was old enough to be bored. “Me neither,” he said. It should have been much harder to make a decision, harder to think of leaving behind his home and his family. “I think I’d like to take you up on that.”


End file.
